


How We're Here Again

by geckoholic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Developing Relationship, Getting Back Together, M/M, Mentions of canon character death, Nightmares, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Up all night to get Bucky (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 03:17:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14907300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: Steve’s had the same dream – the same nightmare – again and again since the day his best friend fell to his death before his eyes.Some nights he catches him. Most nights, like in reality, he misses.





	How We're Here Again

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [How We're Here Again (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14904803) by [SgtGraves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SgtGraves/pseuds/SgtGraves). 



> Oh man you guys today was a lot and I'm very tired. So, without further ado: the prompt has been fun to play with, and to try and match in style (lol you be the judge of whether or not I pulled that off), please go check out the art and shower it with all the praise it deserves!! 
> 
> Beta-read by lustyjustice and rainbowslinky. Thank you!! ♥
> 
> Title is from "Walk Through The Fire" by Zayde Wolf ft. Ruelle.

He dreams. That, in itself, is nothing new. He’s had the same dream – the same _nightmare_ – again and again since the day his best friend fell to his death before his eyes. He’s had it from the very first night.

_The train speeds along through the icy mountain pass, unbothered by the battle fought within it. Steve isn’t nervous, not anymore, swept away by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He catches himself thinking that his body should be immune to that, too, but maybe he just produces more of it, enough to achieve the same effect. He’s almost enjoying himself, which is foolish given the situation. Dangerous, too. But the adrenaline washes his worries away as well and he fights, fights like he always dreamed he could, fights like he was born for it after all._

_Fast-forward and he hangs off the side of the train. He sees the fear in Bucky’s eyes, the certainty that this is it, that his life is over now and there’s nothing to be done about it. Steve wishes with all his might that Bucky’s wrong, that the new strength and speed in his body. What is it good for if it can’t be used to save the one person who means most to him in the whole world? Why was it given to him, how could he be deserving of it, if he can’t even do that? He stares back at Bucky and extends his hand and –_

Some nights he catches him. Most nights, like in reality, he misses.

 

***

 

Steve awakens with a start, hands clutching the thin blanket covering his body, tangled around him like a cocoon. He kicks it off, with more force than strictly necessary, and sits up. He runs a hand down his face, and it comes back wet with cold sweat. That might be because of the dream, or it might be owed to the fan standing in front of his bed, turning the stuffy air around and around until it comes back, cold but still stale and used and stinking of cooking grease and car exhaust. He’s not used to that smell yet; Brooklyn always carried its own odor, and it was never pleasant but it didn’t use to be this rank. He tries not to blame Washington for it, assumes these days it would be the same almost in every city of such size. 

He flips on the small bedside lamp and swings his legs out of bed. He grabs the sketchbook off the nightstand and turns it to a blank page. He takes a deep breath, hoping for a some kind of cleansing, some kind of exorcism, and when that doesn’t work he picks up a pencil too and starts to put the images that still linger behind his eyes on paper. That, too, is some kind of exorcism. Or maybe it’s an incantation, although as such it would be weak and futile. He’s drawn Bucky countless times since that day and it never worked. Bucky has yet to re-materialize in front of him.

Not for the first time he curses that this is the memory that keeps replaying in his mind whenever he drifts out of consciousness long enough. They shared nearly two decades of memories, and it's Bucky's death that he seems stuck on, that unfolds behind his eyes on steady repeat. He wills himself to remember other things instead, there, sitting in the faint light of the shaded lamp in a city that's not his own, in a century that's not his own, living a life that doesn't yet feel like his own. 

One time when they were about eight, they snuck out into the backyard together, out from under the watchful eye of Steve's mother, supposedly to do their homework but playing with trading cards and bouncing around with a neighbor's new dog instead. When they were twelve, they each told their parents they'd stay the night at the other's apartment and instead went to a secret hiding place with partial view of a local bar to watch what they could see of a burlesque show held inside. That time Steve broke two of his finger at fourteen, fighting some older kid who'd harassed a Mexican girl from across the hallway, and Bucky sat him down to fix it, with gauze and small sticks he stole from Mrs. Brochard's vegetable garden in the yard as splints. To distract himself from the pain, Steve had gone back and forth between watching the rain paint whirling patterns on the window and watching Bucky's mouth, tongue absentmindedly sliding out repeatedly to lick his lips in concentration as he worked, which had felt oddly intimate to watch. 

About six months later, in spring, they kissed for the first time. It was out by the bridge, on the way back from a grocery run to the market; another one of those moments where Steve fell back on instinct and let his body make the decisions before his mind could really catch up with what he was doing. Bucky had dropped the grocery bag in surprise, fresh produce spilling out on the ground between them, but he was kissing him back, and for a few minutes, the world narrowed down to just the two of them and nothing else mattered. 

Steve shakes his head at his own useless thoughts, dredging up painful memories and contemplating childish wishes. He puts the sketchbook away and goes back to bed.

 

***

 

Working for SHIELD is both very different and dreadfully similar to working for the military in the Forties. He remains a bit of a show pony, although now he’s also recognized and used as a real weapon. The routine of standby-mission-return-review-standby is soothing, gives his life in this new millennium purpose and structure. He doesn’t have much else. All his friends are dead. What he thought he lived for, back then, has been achieved while he was stuck in the ice. There are still bullies to fight and innocents to save, of course, but the scope and methods have changed. And the manual for this new world is so thick, so layered, that he’s still struggling to understand it all. He fought aliens, for fuck’s sake. With a man who wears a high-tech iron armor and another man who accidentally scienced himself into a green rage monster. The world at large is still struggling to understand _that_. What chance does he have?

He looks down at his latest set of orders. Three days from now, lasting a week, with the goal to take down a group of weapons dealers in the Middle East. He’ll be there as backup, mainly, while Clint and Natasha do the heavy lifting. Except that it’s not heavy, and that’s why he won’t really be needed – it’s a surgical operation. Steve suspects he’s only sent along with them so he doesn’t get bored. But that’s fine. Middle East means jet lag, and jet lag means he won’t sleep much, and that means he might not have those dreams.

 

***

He dreams, again, the first night after his return. He dreams every night after. He gets up before sunrise and puts on his workout clothes, and he runs until he can’t think anymore. Given what his body is capable of now, that’s a whole lot of running, but at least he makes a friend through it. The first one this side of his reawakening who isn't tied to him by work or circumstance – not yet – and picks him freely. Chooses him. It eases a pain sealed deep into Steve's chest, just a little bit, helps make him feel a little more alive. It also makes him feel guilty, but he discards that emotion. Bucky would want him to go on, wouldn't wish for him to stay isolated and alone, would hate if Steve did that his memory. 

That isn't the reason why he decides to stroll through the Captain America exhibit. It's not out of guilt; it's a reminder, a celebration, a small attempt to share that feeling with the person he always wanted to share everything with, for the rest of their lives. The new century brings modern views on love, how men are allowed to feel about other men and women are allowed to feel about other women, and so many things between, and it makes Steve mourn another missed chance. He watches the video footage of them during the war and smiles at the private memory of what happened between them a few nights earlier, hushed promises whispered into each other's skin that were a fantasy, back then, a distant pipe dream, and yet they meant every word. Steve lost his virginity in an underground military hideout in France, spread out on scratchy blankets in his quarters and biting his lips as he came so their friends and comrades wouldn't hear them. Afterward they laid there, facing each other, and Bucky kept dipping in to kiss him some more, all the while grinning like Christmas morning. 

Happiness didn't pass them by, not by a long shot. It just always remained fleeting. 

 

***

 

Project Oversight makes Steve question, for the first time in his life, whether he’s fighting on the right side of history. It sounds to him like the vision of a mad man, which is something he doesn’t think Fury to be despite all their different takes and opinions. Words are running wild in his head, words to explain why this is _wrong_ to him. It might have been well-intentioned, but in Steve’s experience, when you put a gun in a man’s hand and tell him to watch the enemy, eventually he’ll find something that he deems justification to shoot. Too much power. Too much possibility. Maybe they can talk again. He might be able to make Fury listen, change his mind, and keep this from happening.

Except he doesn’t get the chance. SHIELD turns its back on him first – or what they all thought _was_ SHIELD – and history lines up to repeat itself. The first ghost that appears to him is entirely unpleasant and the opposite of wanted. The second one, well. 

He doesn’t believe his eyes at first, but there he stands. Bucky. For a moment Steve considers the possibility that he's daydreaming, got hit on the head or something, that he's seeing things but... no. Sam and Natasha see him too. He's there. He's alive. And he's hell-bent on killing all of them, working for the enemy. 

He doesn't have much time to dwell on that, though, too busy keeping Hydra from reaching for world-domination again. As soon as he gains a bit more information on how, exactly, Bucky managed to survive, he almost wishes Bucky did die in those cold mountains. It would have seemed kinder. 

But only almost. Bucky is alive, and that means he can be saved. Steve pulled off a rescue against impossible odds once before, and he'll do it again. 

 

***

 

He still dreams. But they're different now. They expand. They illustrate the unimaginable, things Steve read in those files, things he tries to ignore during the day. 

_There's a pool of red spreading through pristine white snow, growing, growing, growing larger than what a single human body should be able to spill and still survive. But Bucky isn't normal. Bucky hasn't been normal since he was captured. He lies in the snow groaning, his body broken in too many places to focus on any single source. He hurts all over. Everything is agony. He shivers with the cold, staring at the space where his left arm used to beHe lays there, groaning, in the snow, his body broken in too many places to make out any specific sources. He hurts all over. Everything is agony. He lies there, shivering with the cold, staring at the space where his left arm used to be. He hears footsteps approach and he panics, needs to get away but can't, can't escape, can't –_

_The door to the cryo chamber creaks and hisses as it falls closed and he puts one hand on the glass, a useless gesture, but instinct seldom cares. It just means that he'll be preserved with this plea for the next couple years, until they need him again, until they need someone else killed, and he can't even finish that thought before everything he is turns to ice, always ice –_

Steve jolts awake, breathing hard. He glances at the nightstand, a different nightstand and a different bedside lamp, although the sketchbook is still the same. He reaches for it, sketches a few lines, then curses and throws it across the room. 

It falls open to his last drawing of Bucky falling from the train, the one he drew in Washington, before Hydra 2.0 and before he ever knew the Winter Solder existed. Sam and Natasha keep saying he should prepare himself for the possibility that the Winter Solider _is_ all that remains of James Buchanan Barnes. A body is an empty vessel without a soul, and a vessel this dangerous might have to be destroyed. But they never met Bucky. They don't know him. They have no idea how strong he is, how stubborn he can be, how tenacious. His mind wouldn't be easily erased. It would hold on. He's still there. He proved that when he fished Steve out of the Potomac. Steve will believe that until he's handed solid, undeniable evidence to the contrary. 

 

***

 

Steve never forgets, but he does get sidelined. Ultron changes everything, changes him, makes him hide in his sense of duty and the work that for a while, becomes penance for his hand in the creation of a creature that deemed mankind a plague and attempted to erase it. His nightmares have some more variety, now, although Bucky never stays out of them for long. He's torn between the personal indulgence of running off to find his friend and the self-imposed task to train a new generation of Avengers, one that might do a better job at keeping the world they all live in _safe_ , rather than putting it at risk themselves. 

He'd never thought that one day, he'd look back on fighting Nazis as a simpler time. But it was; back then he still believed in black and white, and in order to save the world all he had to do was stop one man. His enemies were human, and so were the solutions. 

Sometimes, late at night when he can't or doesn't want to sleep, he liberates a bottle of gin from Stark's mini bar in the dinner hall. Alcohol doesn't affect him anymore, but sharp taste, the way it burns going down, muscle memory, that still remains. He pores over the files Natasha gave him and over new reported sightings from all over the world. The man formerly known to him as Bucky Barnes, now known to the world as the Winter Soldier, has become a cryptid. Almost none of the material is useful, and the few reports that sound plausible contain little by the way of concrete traces. 

Another swig from his gin. Another, and another. His vision goes blurry, and it's not, and can't be, from the booze. He throws the folders off his desk, and when that's not satisfying enough the half-full bottle follows. 

He cleans it off in the morning. The smell sticks around for days. 

 

***

 

The UN bombing doesn't make him doubt that Bucky can be saved. Instead it reignites his hope, makes him believe even harder. No one knows the whole story yet, and either way it’s a fresh trail, new breadcrumbs to follow. The downside is that Steve's suddenly racing against a clock, against people who want to secure a weapon and not rescue his friend. In the end, Steve is right. There's more to that story, and Bucky is _Bucky_ , and Steve manages to save him. It doesn't come without a price, but then again, nothing ever did, for them.

 

***

 _There are voices in the distance, dull and distorted and wrong, a children's choir singing something classic and sinister in a language Steve doesn't understand but somehow recognizes as Russian. He's falling, and at the same time he's strapped down on a cold and unforgiving metal surface, and pain explodes all through the left side of his body. No – it's not his body, Steve isn't living this, this isn't his memory, he's watching it from afar, blurred as if through dirty glass. It doesn't shield him from the biting chill seeping into his bones, making a home there, never to be chased from his body again, and he's trembling in fear even before he hears footsteps, men talking to each other, much closer, mixed with the clicking sounds of metal instruments being filed through on a tray –_

“Hey.” 

Bucky's voice cuts through the haze of the nightmare, pulls him back like a lifeline, and Steve blinks, shakes his head, kneads the back of his neck with one hand. 

“I fell asleep,” he says, dumbly, the only other sound he hears now the rumble of the plane's engine and the sporadic beeping from the controls. 

“Yeah,” Bucky replies with a tired, weary smile. “Looks like.” 

And Steve both wants to snap a picture of that smile, draw it, carry it everywhere, and get away from it as far and as quickly as possible. It's familiar, but not, and the disparity hurts. He stands and walks to the cockpit, pushing a few buttons, checking their position and whether everything's in order. They have a rendezvous with Hill and Fury in a few hours, possibly Natasha as well, to try and figure out how to infiltrate the raft and get the others out. He'd hate to be late for that. 

A sigh from behind him, and then Bucky lowers himself into the co-pilot's seat beside him, hands folded in his lap. “Not a pleasant dream, I'd guess. Wanna talk about it?” 

Steve does not. He absolutely doesn't, would rather dive into a pool of lava. He shakes his head. “It’s just. Something I read.” 

Not strictly a lie, and maybe that helps make Bucky back off for now, change the topic. “Still baffles me that they taught _you_ how to fly a plane. That sounds like a spectacularly bad idea to me.” 

He smiles again, although this time it's a little less strained. Figures making fun of Steve would pull the old Bucky to the surface. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Don't know if you heard, I crashed one once. Got me stuck for awhile.” 

Bucky barks a laugh, leaning forward, the same moment that Steve turns to see the expression better as it lights up his face, and suddenly they're close. Too close. Not close enough. 

Without his conscious permission, Steve's eyes fall to Bucky's mouth, and Bucky drags in a sharp breath, frozen, staring at him. The moment is ripe with possibility, filled with a universe of maybes, but before Steve can bridge the gap between them and seize it, Bucky draws away. 

He stares at the floor, uses his human hand to rub the wrist of the metal arm. “Not yet. I'm... I can't do that yet.” 

Steve nods, and Bucky nods back and stands, walking back to the back of the plane. Despite desperately wanting to follow, Steve stays where he is, checking their position again and opening a comm channel to see if he'll be able to reach Hill and Fury by now. 

 

***

 

Wakanda seems like a world of its own, separate and entirely different from the one beyond its borders, and Steve supposes that's true in some ways. The most important thing, though, is how that makes it _safe_. They can rest and catch their breath. Bucky can stop running, consider his options, make his own decisions. Even if they're decisions Steve doesn't like. It highlights their differences in character and outlook, the ones Steve so often tries to ignore, and that he finds deeply uncomfortable to contemplate. Both royal siblings assure him that the cryo will be safe and that they'll be gentle about it and that it's only a temporary solution. It's hard to trust that, harder yet to let go again, and still Steve grits his teeth and _does_. Because this isn't his decision. Because Bucky has the right to pick the option he's most comfortable with. Because there are things in his past now that Steve can't imagine, let alone understand. 

On the upside, the cryo takes careful preparation, takes time to build the tank and run tests and lay out what happened to Bucky's brain so its effects might be reversed, and that time, that time belongs to them.  
Another goodbye is on the horizon, but this time it's a goodbye of their choosing, and for a little while there's him and there's Bucky and the knowledge that they can be together and it's _everything_. 

 

***

 

Steve sits on the balcony of his room, filling a new sketchbook with drawings of the city and its flowers and animals and the plains beyond it. He's dressed all casual, jeans and white t-shirt, and he can't recall how long it's been since he felt less like _Captain America_ and more like _Steve Rogers_. His mother had always wanted to travel, had read books to him about adventures in faraway countries when he was little, and he thinks about her now. Thinks she would love this; hopes that she can see him, somehow, somewhere, and be here with him in spirit. 

“She would have loved it here,” Bucky says from behind him. His sandaled feet didn't mute his arrival, former Russian super spy or not, although Steve had been too lost in thought for the sound to register. But he doesn't startle, isn't surprised. 

“What,” he says, “are you psychic now, too?” 

Bucky lowers himself onto the window sill beside him. “No. I just know you. There's this look you get when you're thinking about Sarah.” 

_Sarah_. Because Bucky knew her. Bucky knew everyone Steve grew up with. Bucky _was_ who Steve grew up with. It's strange, how at home that makes him feel, a million miles away from Brooklyn, from New York, from America. 

He doesn't say anything more, just puts away his sketchbook and reaches for Bucky's hand. For a few seconds, Bucky remains unmoving, then he inches forward to meet him, palm to palm, hand in hand. Steve wants more, so much more, but he resolves to let Bucky dictate the speed and progression of acting on what still exists undiminished between them. No rush, just this once. He vows to live in the moment and enjoy everything he's given. It's all a bonus round, anyway, life after death for both of them. 

 

***

 

The days pass, between video conferences with his former teammates, Bucky's tests and examinations in the royal lab, leisure in the palace, and conversations with the king. T'Challa is an excellent host, shy for someone of his standing but cultured and smart, polite and patient. The latter is not a virtue Steve shares. He knows his gaze keeps growing hungrier whenever he glances across the table, across the room, to the person fate keeps snatching from, a cruel game of push-and-pull which his heart bears the brunt of. The new cryo chamber is almost ready, Shuri almost done mapping Bucky's brain. Soon it’ll be time for the next separation. 

They have a banquet tonight, the elder queen's birthday. One of the things Steve has learned since the ice is to be pleasant company, uphold polite conversation, and he's giving that a good workout tonight. But his gaze keeps wandering to Bucky who’s enclosed by Shuri and a few friends of hers, grinning as he listens to their banter, surely aware of the barrier between him and the rest of the world that the two women have put up in front of him. Wakanda is protective of Bucky, and Steve is grateful. He'll have to leave again eventually, and it's good to know there are other people concerned with his friend's well-being. That he's cared for, sheltered, saved.

T'Challa asks him a question, something about the current state of the Avengers, and Steve tears his eyes away from Bucky, returns his attention to their host. When he gets a chance to look over again, Bucky, Shuri and her friends are gone, vanished within the mass of people in the ballroom. He sighs and listens to Okoye's opinions on global politics, which are as harsh as they are on point. Nevertheless he excuses himself to the bathroom some ten minutes later, and when he re-enters the ballroom Bucky's waiting for him, alone, leaning against the wall by the large swing doors. 

“I was wondering,” he says, in the playful tone Steve's seen him use on countless dames way back when, and that familiar-yet-eerie sensation shivers down his spine again. “If you'd be up for a private party.” 

He crowns that with a wink, which looks ridiculous with the long hair and the stubble and the tired eyes, but Steve laughs anyway, warm relief washing through him. “Seventy years, and your pickup lines are still lame.” 

Bucky shrugs. “They tend to work, though.” 

“That's just because you're pretty,” Steve shoots back, and he wants to press Bucky against that wall and kiss him right here, wants to devour him, wants to never let him go. But Sarah Rogers raised a boy with manners. “Let's give our goodbyes to the king and the lady of the hour, first, and then you can take me anywhere you like.” 

It takes a moment, but then Bucky grins at the double meaning and nods. Saying their goodbyes and excusing themselves to their quarters takes five minutes, and never before did that short a time frame seem so long. 

 

***

 

They leave their clothes where they fall on the way to the bed in Steve's room, hands glued to the other's body from the moment the door falls closed behind them. The large window lets in enough light from the lanterns and torches that they don't need to bother with the ceiling lamp, and it paints an array of different colors onto the pristine light brown sheets and both their bodies as they lay back on them. The music from the ballroom can still be heard, faintly echoing through the corridors of the palace. 

The first round is quick, urgent, all wandering hands and breathless gasps and touch imbued with years of longing. After that, they slow down, deep kisses and reverent, lingering caresses, gentle and drawn-out lovemaking, the kind they never had the quiet or the time to indulge in before. 

Once they're spent, too exhausted for even their enhanced bodies to process any more pleasure, Steve brushes messy, sweat-damp strands of hair out of Bucky's face and studies him in the moonlight. 

“Why did you change your mind?” he asks, quietly. 

Bucky rolls over onto his back, hand crossed over his stomach. “No more missed chances.” 

That's all he says before he rolls over, yawning wide and burrowing into the pillow, but Steve understands. Steve agrees. He wraps himself around Bucky from behind and closes his eyes, drifting into deep, dreamless sleep. 

 

*** 

 

A week later Bucky goes into Shuri's cryo chamber, and Steve leaves to meet up with Natasha and Sam the very same evening. It's not that he doesn't want to stay in Wakanda on his own; it's that the negative space hurts too much to face right now. He'll return. He has every intention of coming back here. 

Bucky stays in cryo for several months, and after that it's Skype dates and midnight phone calls, and somehow life keeps carrying Steve away despite his plans to the contrary. The fractured Avengers. Small and mid-sized catastrophes he can't ignore. Wannabe villains discovering alien tech and suddenly thinking they're supposed to rule the world. Actual crimelords that SHIELD would have taken care of before its fall, who now operate in a vacuum, and Steve can't let that stand. 

When he does return to Wakanda, it's because the world is on the verge of destruction yet again. Bucky looks like a vision from the past in his new uniform, and he's better; not good, not yet, but visibly _better_ , the new arm a gift from friends, not a reminder of years of torture by his captors. They fight together, and it feels like they can defeat anyone, right every wrong, if only they're together. 

That feeling turns out to be treacherous. Steve's not done losing Bucky yet, it seems. 

 

*** 

 

He dreams. That, in itself, is nothing new. He's seen several variations on the same dream – the same _nightmare_ – many times since the day his best friend fell to his death before his eyes. Since the day the Winter Soldier's mask fell and revealed the face Steve never dared hope to see again. Since they fought each other, nearly to the death, on a helicarrier secretly designed by Hydra. Since Bucky vanished, and Steve was left with records of his suffering. Since Bucky was there one minute, fighting alongside him, and turned to dust the next. 

And in those dreams he misses every night, now, in a myriad of ways.

It's been a week since Thanos eliminated half the universe's population with a proverbial twist of his wrist. Everyone here is grieving, everyone here is tired, everyone here is nearing the end of their rope. There's an idea that's been making the rounds, and at this point they're all just desperate enough to try it. Messing with time; it still seems like a spectacularly stupid idea, but nothing else has been working. They're up against an enemy that managed to bundle the greatest powers of the universe in the palm of his hand. Putting the gear in reverse might be the only chance they have left. 

Steve sighs into the darkness, sitting up in the bed he shared with Bucky only months ago, and thumbs through the sketchbooks he's filled since he woke up in the twenty-first century. Bucky falling from the train. His avengers. Bucky with his full Winter Soldier uniform. Bucky on that plane on their way towards the raft. Wakanda. Bucky in this bed, bathed in the first rays of morning sunlight. 

Their story is not over yet. They withstood time. They withstood death before, both of them. They'll withstand this, too, and then Steve will damn well make sure they get the happy ending that they deserve, the one they earned with blood and sweat and tears.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, would you consider reblogging the [tumblr post](https://lostemotion.tumblr.com/post/174797877191/cap-rbb-2018-how-were-here-again-stevebucky)? :D Thank you!


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